Wandering Poet: Of Course I Do.

It was definitely daylight outside. Morning, most likely. The cracks under the tent burned his eyes whenever he glanced in their direction. It was shocking just how quickly someone became used to darkness in even only a few days. He’d gladly risk the pain of being reintroduced to the sun in order to be rid of this. The whole situation was horrible. He finally was allowed to lay down on the ground, hands and legs tied to the pole with enough slack to let him do more than sit straight all the time. Dark blue eyes closed again, good temple resting against cool dirt. When nightfall came, maybe he should shift so his bruised cheek was against the dirt. The cold would probably do it some good…

All thoughts of minor self-care flew out his mind as the flap was pulled back and a shaft of light blinded him. That low female voice floated over to the man as he lay there, blinking the pain away. “Gotcha somethin’ special-like. For yer cheek. That sodder shouldn’ta done that, an’ we’re real sorry ‘bout it. Sit up.”

Eyes finally readjusted to the dark and then opened. He peered at her warily. She stood there, dirty and smelling like the leather armor she wore. Her face soon wore a grim and lopsided smile.

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t trust meh. Ya prob’ly shouldn’. This’s fer real, though. Git up.”

His shoulders squared. He didn’t really have a choice, did he? His elbow shoved his torso up, balance taking over and eventually righting him. He looked more closely at her. She carried something. What was it? A…pouch? Skin? Before he could get a closer look at the item in her hands, she moved behind him. Suddenly one of his hands was free. Gut reaction took over and he immediately pulled it to the other, rubbing where the rope had irritated his wrist.

She finally moved back around, holding out the item. It was a skin of liquid. What was it? He pulled the cork out and sniffed it. Then immediately regretted it. His face twisted and through sheer force of will, he didn’t cough. It smelled like bad wine.

“S’not real good, but it ain’t spoiled ‘er nothin’. Figgered ya could use somethin’ t’ help with th’ pain.”

It was bad wine. Ugh. At least it would probably help with the pain. More importantly, it was liquid. He took a steeling breath inward and then downed the whole thing in three very long, revolting draughts. This was the cheapest, most disgusting wine he had ever drunk in his entire life: shallow in flavor, almost sour…and absolutely heavenly as it burned down his throat. They gave him enough water to keep him healthy, but barely. This was the first time he was able to taste anything in days, and even if it was horrifying, he was glad of it. He leaned back against the pole – it was really more of a log, now that he thought about it – with a deep sigh.

She held her hand out for the skin and he leaned to let her take it. Back to business as usual, no doubt. He held his hand out for her to tie it again. A nod and just that began to happen. Then she started to talk to him. Casually. That was unexpected; he should be cautious.

“I gotta ask, d’ya got any idear how that redhaired b- girlfriend’a yers got ‘erself in that much’a debt?”

He stayed still and silent. No answer from him.

A scoff and sigh echoed around the tent. His hand was retied and she stood up before trotting around to face him. “Di’nt ev’n tell ya? Bah, whaddya ‘spect. Not ev’ry day a girl falls int’ ten gold worth’a owin’ people, though.”

That news was, unfortunately, too much of a surprise for him to hide his reaction. He gaped at her. Only ten gold? Ceswyn made him promise not to help over ten gold? A shake of his head cleared the expression. He hoped that the momentary lapse in control would be misinterpreted.

She paused and gave him a curious look. “D’ya love ‘er?”

He may have not gotten around that much, so to speak, but even he knew that was something he would never tell them. Anything at all was leverage. She tried to surprise him by dropping what she thought was an outrageous “fact” and then asked him a personal question. He wasn’t that malnourished or that stupid. He gave her a suspicious look, eyes narrowing and chin raising.

He was rewarded with another savage grin – but only one side of her mouth had tipped up. That, as he had begun to recognize, was her being pleased or amused. She nodded respectfully to him. “Git some sleep, yer cheek there don’t look no good.” Another flash of searing light made him curl up as she walked out, panel flapping behind her.

Sadly, she was right. He should sleep, regardless of the time of day. There was mending and thinking to be done. The wine, horribly low quality or not, began to take effect shortly. He was never a heavy drinker anyway, and even then only the quality vintages. Sleepy lids drooped over deep blue eyes and he shifted to lie on the ground again.

…Only ten gold? They were going to have a long talk when – not if, when – they were together again. A tiny, illogical part of his mind nagged at him. He had to admit it to someone, something. He sighed and quietly croaked to himself, “Of course I do.” The silly and pointless statement said, his mind allowed dreams to take him.

Wandering Poet: Small Victories

He awoke from his dream with a jolt. He was in a new tent? Eyes slowly cracked open, a wince accompanying them. The cut on his temple was still fresh, and hurt when he opened his eyes. The smell of incredibly boring mash finally made its way to his nostrils. Dinnertime? Already? Did he really sleep the entire afternoon away after that brutish man slugged him? Where did they take him, now? The air smelled…rotten. Ugh, the food was not even remotely appetizing, but at least it was nourishing. He could hear his stomach calling for it…so could his food purveyor. A feminine yet deep and unamused chuckle drifted across the cool air.

“Eat up.” She placed it on the floor next to him and untied his hands. He could eat with his hands, which was a great relief, but he knew he couldn’t do anything else with it. She made it abundantly clear last time that she was not above stabbing him and then tending to his wounds if he tried to get around her. He was no hero, so he wasn’t going to call her bluff on it. Rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck, he sighed. Nothing to be done for it, he just had to eat and then get tied back up.

Her deep voice cut through the air again, sharp and displeased this time. He froze mid-reach for the food and finally turned his squinting gaze up to her. She walked over, peering only inches from his face. “Did he do this?” She unkindly poked the growing bruise. He winced and nodded. “Sodding fucker… Applewood’s boys can’t do nothin’ right. I’ll have him run out for this. Told him no harming the merch.” She finally, mercifully, got out of his face so he could continue eating.

She was gone, the food was in his stomach, and his arms were again tightly bound to his sides. This was not at all pleasant, but at least it seemed like the guy who smacked him around earlier was getting in trouble. Small victories…take them when you can. Perhaps they’d even let him have some more water as an apology. Heh, not likely; but it was nice to dream. He twisted his head and leaned his right cheek against the wood behind him. He could practically feel the nasty hit on the left side of his face growing. It and the back of his head were intermittent in their throbbing. To say he had a headache would be a massive understatement.

He took this time to think. Again. That’s all he had to do. He even ran through old Sindarin conjugation tables at one point; anything to keep his sanity in check. The one thing he didn’t want to think about was her. That he couldn’t handle. Not knowing if she was all right, not being able to tell her it wasn’t her fault, not being able to say… argh! This is why he shouldn’t think of her. It hurt too much. His head hung with a sigh. The constant back and forth of pain between back of head and cheek eventually serenaded him to sleep.

Wandering Poet: Inspiration

The ever-lovely and talented Quae depicted Ceswyn reading a poem left in Tegil’s house. The below picture is a simple depiction of it. It’s written in colored wax, pink, and clearly a young girl’s hand. She’s only eight, and dearly misses her uncle. She hasn’t completely grasped the fact that he’s not called Dínendir anymore. Or the fact that it’s not proper to rhyme a word with itself. But she’s only eight! Also, feel free to click for the full size version.

Please click for larger!

Wandering Poet: Kidnapped!

One eye opened, the other still wincing in pain. His head was throbbing. He could hear it, feel it. Thud. Thud. Thud. How hard did they hit him to knock him out? Merileth always did call him thick headed; suddenly the loving jest seemed more a curse. Thoughts finally started to surface above the haze of dark and hurt. Reason began to take over. Where was he? Who had him? Why? He shifted as best he could in his bound state. At least they didn’t gag him. Then again, if they didn’t gag him, he could only assume that meant they knew no one would hear him even if he did try to call out. He briefly considered trying anyway, but the thudding from the back of his head told him that was not wise. More comfortably leaning against the pole he was tied to, he began to actually think.

Where was he? He sniffed the air. Why did he just sniff the air? He wasn’t an Elf or hunter. He had no idea where he was, short of “in a tent.” With dead grass below him. Which meant he was outside. He knew that already…

Who had him? He heard a few names, but they were all lost in the jumble of unconsciousness. He’d have to listen more carefully…hopefully they wouldn’t drug him. That would make figuring out who had him and why fairly difficult. A quick flexing of his muscles proved no good. They had him lashed up well. These people – bandits, crooks, mercenaries? – were clearly of a higher caliber.

Why? A million reasons, most of them fanciful and absurd and he knew it, flashed through his mind. He had no idea. His head leaned back against the pole and then he hissed and let out a near-silent curse in Sindarin. That was not going to heal fast. Hopefully it wasn’t broken or cracked. They really hit him hard.

Some stomping and quiet talking outside his tent jolted him quickly out of his self-query. An ear perked, head stupidly jolting to toss raven hair away from it. He winced at the sudden pain and wooziness that action caused him before blinking a few times to refocus. Focus. Why are you here? He listened as best he could.

“…Think it’ll be workin’ out?”

“I dunno. It better. Can’t believe … without asking me first … talk.”

“What happens iffen … up?”

“Tha’s a real … redhaired bitch doesn’t pay … no idea. Murder’s not … my back enough a’ready.”

His eyes widened until it hurt too much to do that, then they closed shut with a weary sigh. It was the men harassing her. His eyes shot back open. Was she all right? He suddenly tried to get up, groaning at the pain and settling back down against the ground. She had better be safe.

She had best be safe. He didn’t know what he’d do if she wasn’t, but he didn’t even want to think about it. She just had better be all right. His jaw set and, despite the pain it caused, he kept it clenched. It’s all he could do, but it was something.

He could do nothing else but wait.

Musical Representations

This is entirely her fault. Oh, and I make no apologies for the fact that this damn well may end up all the same artist. Their lyricist is a god among poets, horrible English aside.


In total honesty… it’s truly Tegil’s fault. I didn’t even consider doing a post…until I was listening to my play list when this rarely played song came on random. I almost cried. It’s perfect. Lyrics are subtitles, so I apologize if they’re not too readable. I felt the song deserved a higher quality of sound over readability. You can find them here as well.


Song speaks for itself, I think. Lyrics here, if you would like to read them more easily.


This song perfectly explains how she feels about herself in relation to chillins. Just wonderful. Nice song, too!


Some of the imagery in here really spoke to me. Particularly the wolf and lamb part. Lyrics, if necessary.

Before Dreams Take Me

We all think before we drift off to sleep, and often we’ll tally lists or think about our day. Every thought here is unlabeled, and not prefaced. Enjoy this tiny snippet into everyone’s innermost consciousness.


Please let me sleep tonight…


What am I doing?


Tomorrow. I’ll start tomorrow, I promise.


I have never wanted to break a promise so badly in my life.


…They’re not bad people.

Bowmaiden: Another Year

Long blonde hair caught on a branch and its owner groaned as she pulled it free. It was interesting that the Commander celebrated Fallowmath…he clearly wasn’t Rohirric. If anything, he was Gondorian. No other country could boast the ability to have black hair, height and a near-constant brooding aura like they could. Not that they were bad people, mind you; she’d met plenty of good Gondorians, and he seemed a sturdy enough Man. Either way, it was a little surprising to hear them speak of starting the fire. Her first instinct was to join in, but something held her back. This held her back.

She completed the small wood pile, fully knowing the fire wouldn’t last the whole week – hell, it wouldn’t make it through the night without her guidance. It didn’t matter; all she needed was to have this private time. A year ago this time, she was in her own land…with her family. The whole village came out for the starting of the fire. It was a special time. It would be ten days from tonight that she set out. She left immediately after the feasting, her parents giving her blessings and gifts for her journey in front of the flames. That’s when she was given her bow. It was well-made and strong…her father was so proud to give it to her.

That same bow was – as always – hanging from her left shoulder. She shrugged, causing it to wave around in the cool air. It was a lot cooler here, but the trees were more diverse. They even had a lot of pine, which was incredible. She actually managed to scavenge nothing but pine branches for her little fire when back home she would be lucky to have even one twig to offer to the flames. Striking flint and stone, her thoughts went as silent as the woods around her.

The small sparks caught the tinder and soon the flames licked and curved their way into the branches. Crackling and hissing were heard as fire invaded wood, turning the former tree into its own fuel to help continue its own existence. Pear-green eyes solemnly stared at the process with nary a sound. She said nothing, only moving from her sitting position to throw another small piece to help the fire in its quest to continue living. Late winter afternoon turned into evening, then eventually to night. Stars began to blink in the midnight-hued sky, watching down on her vigil with twinkling joy.

Hours passed, never moving from her spot nor speaking. Once the stars began to hide from the sun and the sky began to turn a soft pink did Leuedai speak. Her voice was rough with disuse and emotion. She reached to her side and pulled a small bundle of herbs from her pocket. If they were fresh, the smell of rosemary, thyme and sage would waft on the chilled, smoky air. The bundle was held with both hands, as an offering before the fire.

“I offer this to those who came before me, including those who yet live. I will return one day, and do as much good as I may before doing so.”

Her head bowed and blonde strands covered the herbs almost like a blanket. Another long, silent moment later, hair was torn from the dried green as the latter was carefully laid into the remaining fire. The flame took the offering with what seemed to her like gladness and the dried bundle immediately began to crackle. Green eyes watched until it had burned completely before rising and walking away without looking back. Perhaps it was to hide tears, perhaps it was just too cold. No one but her would ever know. So began another year.